Apologies: Prodigal Father's Missing Scenes
by ficscribbler
Summary: These are the missing scenes after Roxton kills Largo in the jungle.


**Apologies: Prodigal Father's Missing Scenes**

Summary: _These are the missing scenes after Roxton kills Largo in the jungle._

Disclaimer: _"The Lost World" belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's estate and those folks to whom permission has been legally granted to recreate the story. Kudos to the brilliant minds who added Marguerite and Veronica into the shifting planes of reality for the television series – without these two ladies, it wouldn't be half as much fun to borrow the characters for fanfiction fancies like this one._

Spoiler warning: _Much of Season One, especially episode 17 ("Prodigal Father") as well as hints of "The Secret" and "Tapestry"._

Author's Note: _Many thanks to Zakiyah for her awesome beta job._

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"Hey! Roxton needs help here!"

Marguerite's sharp call caused Veronica to break away from Ned's comforting embrace in consternation. But although the other woman's words vividly reminded her that the British lord had been wounded, confused feelings of heartache and relief still threatened to overwhelm her. Warring images fogged her thoughts. The blonde huntress's brow furrowed in concentration as she hastily wiped away her tears and tried to gather some semblance of composure. She knew that resolving her jumbled emotions - the man Roxton had just killed was not her father but an imposter! - would have to wait. After all, it was her fault that Roxton now needed help.

_I deliberately stabbed him with all my might - how could I have done that?! Worse, how could Daddy have expected – and ordered! - me to do it - and why did I listen?! No, not Daddy … that man wasn't truly my father… how could I not have known that?_ Even as she asked herself that question she knew the answer:_ Because I wanted, needed to believe it was my father... But how could I have attacked Roxton so viciously - my friend and housemate – even if it had been my real father who told me to kill him, how could I have wanted to hurt Roxton, to the point where I actually enjoyed stabbing a friend?_

_If my attention hadn't slipped when I heard Daddy's voice - no, the sound of that impostor's voice! If I hadn't been so terrified at the sight of the kitchen blade hurtling through the air toward Daddy - no, toward the man who wasn't my father - I'd have broken Marguerite's neck just as gleefully as I would have twisted my knife deeper into Roxton's side._ Pinning the petite brunette had been surprisingly difficult, but she'd finally managed to get the right hold on her slippery opponent to do it. She could still feel the appallingly satisfied expectation of putting an end to the other woman's life - not that she hadn't thought of doing _that_ a dozen times before, especially during moments when Marguerite was being particularly obnoxious - but never had she come so terribly close to carrying through on the desire to -

"Malone! Veronica! NOW!"

The impatient tone had an edge of panic that penetrated the turmoil still muddling the young blonde's thinking. Veronica's mind cleared abruptly and completely.

Ned prevented her from responding for a moment longer. He ignored the other woman's insistent voice, his gentle hands lingering on Veronica's shoulders as she tried to step back, holding her still as his sky blue eyes searched her unusually pale face. Only when she managed a faint smile and a tiny nod acknowledging his concern was he reassured that she was herself again, freed from the influence of the drug. He held her gaze for another second, tenderly smiling an unspoken promise that he'd be available later to hold her, or to talk.

That extra moment of Ned's support helped. The knot of misery in Veronica's stomach eased a little, and her heavy heart was warmed as his customary thoughtfulness registered.

Together they turned toward where Marguerite hovered on her knees over Roxton. Her silver-green gaze alternated between anxiously eyeing the wounded hunter and peevishly glaring toward the younger pair. "It's about time!" she snapped. "Malone, get over here! Roxton's still bleeding. He needs to be looked after. It looks pretty deep, but Veronica and I are too filthy to touch him. You'll have to dress this, the sooner the better."

She was right, of course.

How long had it been since the young American had jumped away from Roxton's side to catch the distraught blonde in her headlong flight toward the dying impostor? Long enough for Marguerite to have caught her breath after her tussle with the younger woman, Ned realized. His brow creased as he noticed that the untrusting brunette kept a wary eye on Veronica as they approached their downed companion. He couldn't blame her for her caution this time, though. Veronica was more shaken than he'd ever seen her, even now that her eyes were clear again. When she'd lurched from the muddy patch in a desperate attempt to save the life of the man she'd thought was her father, it had taken all his strength to hold her back. Ned had been so afraid his words wouldn't be able to pierce the combination of the drug and her natural desire to believe that Largo was really her missing father, he'd actually forgotten that his other friend needed urgent attention. Good thing Marguerite had her wits about her, despite nearly losing her battle with Veronica.

"We'll have him bandaged up in no time," Ned promised, striving to maintain a calm tone. He noticed with a sinking heart just how much blood had already spread on the dark-haired man's trousers, shirt, and tanned skin. He and Veronica knelt across from the slim brunette. Veronica bit her lip in agony at the sight of the angry wound.

"You're going to have to check the internal damage before you can staunch the blood," Marguerite said tautly. "Doesn't look like he has that much left to lose, so hurry."

Roxton was still on the ground beside the tree, right where Ned had left him a heartbeat of eternity before. Roxton's timely knife throw had probably saved all their lives, but it had been achieved at the expense of his already injured body. As usual, the man tried not to show the extent of his pain. He was unaware that all three of his friends noted the pucker between his brows as he repeatedly blinked things back into focus, fighting to stay conscious. The nobleman's jaw clenched tightly as he pressed one hand to his now-bared abdomen in an unsuccessful attempt to halt the flow of blood.

"It's not so bad, Marguerite. I think it's slowing," Roxton tried to reassure the woman poised so protectively beside him.

She replied with a snort of disbelief. While Ned had been catching Veronica and urging her to throw off the impostor's drug-induced control over her, the bedraggled brunette had scrambled from the muddy pit, shaking off as much of the slimy residue as she could along the way. She'd wiped her hands on some tall pampas grass nearby before she'd dropped to her knees at Roxton's side and pulled open his shirt to examine the injury inflicted by the jungle beauty's knife. But Marguerite could do little more than look at the jagged tear where the knife had plunged into his lower left side, for fear that she might further contaminate the gaping wound. She was far too dirty. Infections were all too easy to come by on this bloody Plateau to risk touching the wounded man's torn skin.

The journalist met his friend's pained eyes. "Sorry, Roxton," he apologized gruffly. "I've got to take a look."

With a stoic nod, Lord Roxton sucked in a deep breath and lifted his hand from the wound.

Ned steeled himself, then carefully probed through the bloodied flesh, wincing at the hiss of pain and the involuntary jerky responses Roxton couldn't restrain. The reporter's stomach turned, and he had to swallow back bile more than once, but he forced himself to continue. He was the only one here who could tend to this; he couldn't be lily-livered, and he couldn't make any mistakes.

Marguerite and Veronica both waited uneasily, all too aware of the ashen face of the British lord as he ground his teeth and narrowed his eyes against the searing pain of Ned's careful examination. Both women were nearly as pale as the patient and his doctor by the time Ned had finished.

The younger man flashed them a wan but relieved smile as he reported, "I think we're in luck - it doesn't look like any of the organs were touched!"

"Thank God!" Veronica breathed, slender shoulders sagging.

Marguerite's eyes closed in relief, too, then intuitively flashed open again just in time to press a restraining hand on Roxton's shoulder before he could act on his intention to get up. "Just because all your vitals are intact doesn't mean you should be exerting yourself yet, Lord Roxton," she rebuked sternly. "All that blood had to come from somewhere. You're not moving until either Summerlee or Challenger say so."

Seeing his friend glower up at the woman, the former war correspondent spoke up before Roxton could start arguing. "I think it was most likely extra blood that surged up because of his effort to throw the knife, Marguerite. And see, the bleeding is staying pretty steady now that I'm not agitating it by poking around in there. But," he added firmly to the now-smirking lord, "she's right, Roxton. You don't want to risk moving any more than necessary."

Ned cleared his throat uneasily, remembering a soldier who'd insisted on rejoining his unit because he'd suffered little more than a surface wound. He hadn't been gone thirty minutes when corpsmen carried him back again, bleeding profusely. The surgeon who tended him that second time had discovered that an almost imperceptibly nicked artery had burst under the strain of the infantryman's renewed exertions. Ned had never forgotten the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when the medical officer had wearily stated that if the soldier had been confined to a bed, his movement limited, the minor tear would probably have mended itself.

It had been Ned's first wartime assignment, to write about the medical heroes bringing healing to the troops, a nice safe article to introduce him into the military zone. That day was the first time Ned saw a man die… but not the last.

The blond American blinked, shook off memories of more brutal deaths that threatened to resurface, and focused on the injured man who was now his responsibility. Resolved that the same fate would not befall Roxton if he had anything to say about it, he met his friend's mutinous frown and said simply, "You could worsen the injury if you don't keep still, or prevent the blood from starting to clot."

Veronica voiced her agreement. "We definitely need to stop the bleeding. We're already in danger of attracting predators."

Roxton grimaced in acknowledgment of their arguments. Enduring Ned's exploratory prodding had sapped his already wavering strength, a situation he loathed and would fight with all his will. To give in to that weakness, particularly while the group remained in potential danger, was unacceptable. But although he disliked the idea of allowing himself to be ruled by pain, he couldn't dispute their logic. The best course for everyone's safety right now was to limit any further blood that might attract predators. He reluctantly gave up the idea of struggling to his feet and gave his anxious friends a nod of acceptance.

Satisfied, Marguerite wisely held her tongue and kept her expression carefully neutral, well aware that any sign of smugness might provoke the willful Englishman into changing his mind. Veronica gave him an encouraging smile of approval.

Ned glanced around in search of material with which to form bandages. The two women, as Marguerite had said, were thoroughly filthy - not that Veronica wore enough to spare an article of clothing for making bandages anyway. The hunter's own tattered shirt was too dirty from his misadventures to be able to use as a bandage. None of the explorers was even carrying a backpack today, which meant no first aid kit or backup supplies were available.

Well aware that both women were watching him expectantly - how odd to be the one they were all trusting for once! - Ned sat back on his heels, slipped his braces off his shoulders, and began to unbutton his shirt. "I'll use this for bandaging." He tried to hurry as he noticed the amount of blood still seeping steadily from Roxton's wound. Ned's prodding inside it certainly hadn't helped.

The grimy brunette nodded her approval. "We don't have any water to cleanse the wound with, and if I'm not mistaken, I noticed a lot of apemen tracks -" she paused to glance down at Roxton, who nodded in confirmation of this fact, "so no fire either. Just fold a strip into squares to make a pressure pad, then wrap it as tightly as you can. We can cleanse the wound properly, cauterize or sew up anything that needs sealing, and medicate Roxton when we get home. And since he shouldn't walk until that's done, we're going to need the other men to carry him back to the treehouse." She ignored the hunter's predictable scowl at the way she was assuming control. "I know where to find Summerlee, but does anyone know where Challenger is?"

"L-left him -" Roxton broke off with a wince, his already bloodied hand automatically moving back to his wound in an effort to smooth the pain away. He was appalled at the tremor in his voice and startled by the stinging needles caused by his first effort to speak since Ned had poked around inside him. It had left him weaker than he'd anticipated, and he was suddenly glad he hadn't tried to get up a few moments before. Glaring at the sharp-eyed brunette watching him so closely, he decided he'd better rest long enough to ensure that he didn't give her any reason to gloat. He cleared his throat and tried again, concentrating on holding his gravelly voice steady. "I knocked him out a couple hundred yards back to the southeast of here." There. That had come out much better. Not much of a victory, but at this point he'd take what he could get.

Veronica nodded, glad for a positive activity that she could undertake. "I'll backtrack you and find him while Marguerite fetches Summerlee," she suggested.

"Good idea," the brunette agreed, quickly rising to her feet. Too quickly, apparently, as she paused to brace herself against the nearest tree trunk. Because their eyes had been drawn to her sudden movement, her companions noticed her momentary dizziness, despite the speed with which she forced herself to straighten up. Hoping to prevent unwelcome comments from the others, she continued briskly, "Hopefully that neurotoxin drug Summerlee mentioned is wearing off them, too. Be careful, Veronica."

Ned stood, too, forgetting about removing his shirt in his new concern over the slim brunette. He started to reach out toward her. "Marguerite, are you -"

She interrupted the reporter's question with a wry grimace as she stepped away from Roxton's prone form and out of Ned's reach, acting as if he hadn't spoken. "We would have to land in mud! I should have come at Veronica from the other direction," she complained bitterly, clearly annoyed as she shook more of the dripping sludge off her arms – making certain not to splatter the injured man. "The sooner we all get back to the treehouse, the sooner I can wash up, so let's get moving." She turned and trudged away without looking back at her friends.

Veronica raised a brow at the two men, puzzled as to why they hadn't questioned Marguerite's unusual unsteadiness before they allowed the heiress out of their sight – especially the often overly-protective Lord Roxton.

"She said Summerlee -er - whacked her with a skillet," Ned explained solemnly, still not entirely convinced that she'd been right about the identity of her attacker. He couldn't imagine the old gentleman ever striking a woman, although come to think of it, if the culprit really had been the Professor, it explained the strange choice of weapon.

"She was out cold when we found her," Roxton agreed huskily, looking after the European woman with a frown. "She had quite a bump on the back of her head. I have no idea how long she was unconscious, but she probably shouldn't be on her feet."

Veronica shrugged skeptically, hands on her hips and head tilted to one side as she scoffed, "Well, you'd never know it by the way she was fighting me a couple minutes ago. She certainly attacked me with plenty of energy when she came charging up." But there was no denying that Marguerite had just nearly lost her balance. After being hit on the head with a skillet and then being roughed up during their tussle, it was possible that the men might be right about the brunette's condition. Reluctantly, the young blonde admitted, "Still, she did look a bit unsteady, didn't she? If she's not back by the time I return with Challenger, I'll go after her," she promised. She took a step away, then hesitated and looked back down at the hunter. "Roxton … I'm sorry…"

He shrugged, careful to keep the motion slow and steady. "Don't fret about it, Veronica. You were following Largo's orders, not acting of your own free will." He was too well acquainted with guilt to pass up the opportunity to absolve the girl, even though each syllable he spoke caused another sharp twinge of pain. It was manageable, though, now that he knew he needed to brace himself for the effort. "I'll be all right. Malone will have me all patched up by the time you get back, you'll see." He summoned a half grin and a wink to assuage her conscience. "You just find Challenger."

Relieved that he didn't hold her responsible for his injury, she smiled back and nodded. Her gaze lifted to the blond man's. "Take good care of him, Malone," she said softly, then whirled and loped off along the hunter's back trail to find George Challenger.

Not until Roxton discreetly cleared his throat did Ned realize that he was staring after the beautiful jungle girl as she moved out of sight into the thick woodland around them. He flushed, grinned down at the amused and knowing older man, and admitted ruefully, "She sure is pretty, isn't she?"

He didn't actually expect an answer from the battered man, and was surprised at the bark of laughter prompted by his wistful comment. Although the laugh changed abruptly into a grimace of pain, Roxton still managed a credible smirk as he agreed raspily. "Yes, I'd say _both_ women are lovely - even covered in muck."

Realizing that conversation could at least partially distract the injured lord from his pain, Malone grinned and elaborated on a subject he knew would keep the older man occupied. "Yeah, I didn't think it would be wise to say anything about the mud, but that was sure something, wasn't it? Hey, when Marguerite said she should've come at Veronica from the other direction, did I understand right? Did she really knock Veronica into that pit while they were fighting? I wouldn't have thought she had the strength to push Veronica around like that." He gestured toward the water-filled depression behind them.

Roxton nodded. "Made a flying tackle," he confirmed simply. "Seemed like she came out of nowhere." His lips twitched slightly, recalling his bemusement when Veronica had disappeared so suddenly. "I don't think Veronica knew what hit her."

Ned whistled softly. "So she really jumped Veronica? Never thought I'd see the day when she'd dare to physically wrestle Veronica. She doesn't usually start something unless she thinks she can come out on top, and she must've known Veronica would best her in a hand-to-hand fight. I wish I'd seen the beginning; they were deep into their struggle when I got close enough to see what was happening."

Ned pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, then paused with a frown as it tangled in his dangling braces. Once he had freed the material, he knelt again while he began to rip the blue and white striped cotton into long strands, draping each piece over his bare shoulder as he started tearing the next strip. "That whack on the head earlier must have muddled Marguerite's thinking - either that, or she really was worried about you. Of course," the American added with a mischievous grin as he recollected the brunette's earlier tirade at the treehouse, "she did say she'd deny the whole thing if I told anyone – particularly you – that she'd been pacing around wound up tighter than a spring because she was worried about you. Naturally, she also made the standard denial she always spouts about not giving two cents for any of us. But her risking a physical fight with Veronica, there's nothing natural about that. And it's only one of the weird things she's done lately… Marguerite's been acting oddly since we found Tom - er, Largo."

"How so?" Roxton asked, puzzled.

"Well, think about it. Before we found Largo, you and I were doing all the work, carrying both bags of salt while she just sauntered along, happy as a lark with that ivory necklace she'd traded our shirts for. When we spotted that guy, I kept expecting Marguerite to urge us to leave him so we wouldn't end up attracting predators ourselves. But she didn't argue with us about helping the poor devil, she just wanted us to hurry. She voluntarily picked up both bags of salt and carried them herself so we could move him to safety, remember?" Having folded the first strand of cloth into a compact pad, he helped his dark-haired friend sit up and gently pressed the pad against the bleeding gash. "Hold that, will you?"

"Yeah, sure." Roxton complied, carefully placing his hand over the square of material as he reflected on the last couple days. Handling two sacks of the unrefined mineral was a heavy, awkward chore that made it almost impossible to respond quickly to potential dangers as they traveled. That was why the two men had split the duty of carrying the salt. Yet Marguerite had managed both bags on her own and kept pace with the men – without a single complaint. "You're right. And she stayed with us when we were having trouble carrying Tom - I mean, Largo - instead of going on ahead of us, in spite of how close that T-Rex sounded."

The journalist nodded, easing one arm around Roxton to brace him until the hunter was steady on one elbow, raised off the ground enough that Ned could start to wrap a strip of cloth around his friend's waist. "She even did most of the work to wash away all that extra blood, while I was burying the bloody shirt. It was like she felt some kind of sympathy for this guy, a perfect stranger to her. You've got to admit that's not her usual behavior. There wasn't anything in it for her, after all."

Roxton frowned thoughtfully, slowly lifting his hand from the pressure pad as the younger man wrapped the initial strap over it. "I'm not all that convinced anymore about her motivations, Neddy-boy."

The reporter met his friend's shrewd gaze with interest. "What do you mean? Marguerite's pretty single-minded about getting her hands on anything that will make her rich, and she makes no secret of it. If you don't think it's wealth Marguerite's after, or protecting her investment, as she's so fond of saying, then why do you think she insisted on coming along?"

The hunter grimaced. "Got me there. Then again, why does any woman do what she does? You're right, though; she was definitely cooperative even before she found that map. She seemed genuinely pleased about the idea that we'd found Veronica's father, too, after he told us he was Tom Layton. She's always seemed so sure the Laytons were dead, I half expected her to -" he broke off with a grunt of pain as Ned tightly knotted the first cloth strip, to hold the pressure pad in place.

"Sorry," the American apologized. He noticed a tremor in the bent arm that was propping the usually strong man in his semi-reclined position, a sign of the strain Roxton was enduring. To distract the hunter, he continued to analyze the behavior of the expedition's financier. "Yeah, she _was_ glad when she thought we'd found Veronica's father. Her face lit up like she'd just discovered a diamond mine, and I think she was as eager as I was to get him home to Veronica. But he must have done something while we were gone today that made her realize he was an impostor. When she regained consciousness in the treehouse after you left to find the others, Marguerite said I wouldn't have wanted to see how - er - Largo was looking at Veronica, that she'd -" he paused his ministrations to grin at his friend, "wash your socks for a month if he was really her father."

Roxton started to chuckle, broke off with a groan, and glared up at Ned. "Will you quit making me laugh?!"

"Sorry," Ned said again, and quickly tied off the last of the straps to hold the pressure pad in place. Once he was satisfied that his handiwork would hold, he helped Roxton ease back down to the ground and turned his attention to where Veronica's knife had slashed Roxton's arm. "Good thing I have plenty of shirt left," he said good-naturedly as he tore another section of material from the remnants of the garment.

"So she was worried about me when I didn't make it back?" Needing a diversion from the throbbing ache, the handsome Englishman latched onto the intriguing tidbit Ned had revealed earlier. He glanced speculatively in the direction Marguerite had gone.

"Definitely," Malone replied, deftly picking up on the obvious conversational clue and secretly tickled to be able to tell tales on the annoying heiress - not that any normal person would have minded what he had to say about her. But Marguerite wasn't a normal person; she'd be livid with him for talking about her… if she only knew. A minor payback, in light of the way she was always taunting him. Mischief flickered again in his sky blue eyes as he explained, "Earlier today she rousted Challenger from his lab and insisted that we split in three directions looking for you to maximize the chances of locating you. And she was worried about Veronica, too, particularly since we couldn't find _you_, and Veronica and her father had left the treehouse alone while someone was still probably hunting him."

Remembering that afternoon again, Ned shook his head, marveling anew at the surprising stamina evidenced by their unpredictable housemate. "After we found her knocked out in the treehouse, I expected to be stuck there looking after her, listening to her grumbling and griping while you were out here trying to find the others on your own. But she didn't complain at all, and she didn't use getting knocked out as an excuse to stay home, either. Following you was the only thing she seemed to care about. As soon as she was able to get back on her feet, she was looking for any kind of a weapon we could arm ourselves with so we could find everyone and help. Like I said, weird. She's really been almost human today," he joked.

"You're too hard on her, Malone," Roxton rasped. "It's not so unusual for Marguerite to be watching our backs. She does it all the time."

"Well, maybe," Ned concurred slowly, thinking about it while he carefully bound up the second wound on Roxton's upper right arm. "But you have to admit that her wrestling Veronica was out of character."

Roxton's hazel-green eyes darkened at the vivid memory of the deadly intent on the jungle girl's face as she'd prepared to plunge her dagger into his heart. "If Marguerite hadn't shown up out of the blue and tackled Veronica, I'd be dead right now," he said bluntly. "Physically knocking Veronica away from me was the only way she could have been stopped."

Fascinated, the reporter stared at him. "You really think Veronica would have killed you?"

The dark haired man nodded soberly. "You saw how she was, wholly under the influence of that drug. Challenger and Summerlee tried to kill me, too. I was bloody lucky today, Malone, bloody lucky."

Ned grimaced at the unfortunate turn of phrase. "Bloody" was all too right! Yet remembering Arthur Summerlee's utter calmness and assurance despite his obvious delusions, Ned decided the hunter was correct. "Yeah, it was pretty fantastic; I wouldn't have believed it unless I'd seen it myself. While we were searching for you, we came across Summerlee. After Marguerite took his gun from him, he stood there looking right at us, as mild-mannered as ever, and asked for his gun back because he needed to kill us! Marguerite said Summerlee needed a lobotomy," he recalled with a grin.

"Doubtless the old fool does need a lobotomy!" The irritable growl informed the two men that Veronica had returned with George Challenger in tow. "Here, let me have a look at that."

Ned stood and yielded his place beside Roxton to the expedition leader, who squatted down to double-check the bandaging. A look of chagrin crossed the reporter's face as he realized he had neglected to devote some of his awareness to their surroundings. Challenger and Veronica had come up right behind him and he hadn't heard even a hint of their approach. He noticed that Roxton didn't seem at all startled, so the hunter must have seen them. Even injured, the dark-haired man was a better outdoorsman. Ned sighed and made a mental note to work on being more alert.

A dark scowl furrowed Challenger's brow as he glared first at the straps around the hunter's waist and then at the bandages Ned had applied directly over Roxton's sleeve, finally grunting, "It'll do until we can get you back to the treehouse for proper treatment."

"You all right, George?" Roxton asked in concern.

"Of course I am!" the older man retorted sharply, brows meeting over his flashing eyes. "No thanks to you!"

Roxton blinked, a little taken aback. "Well, I'm sorry I had to knock you out, but you were trying to kill me, old boy," he answered hesitantly. "And you bloody near succeeded."

The scientist grunted ungraciously. "Fine day this has been! Taken in by an impostor, and taken out by a friend!" he huffed. "Out in the jungle without provisions or armament - and where the devil is that old fool?!"

Ned lofted a brow at Veronica. She rolled her eyes and reached for the reporter's arm. "Marguerite's not back yet? We should check on her and Summerlee…" She tugged him along with her, away from Roxton and the cranky scientist.

Following, Ned whispered, "What's wrong with Challenger?"

She didn't answer him, because at that moment Marguerite and Summerlee appeared through the jungle vegetation. Marguerite looked a bit flushed and breathless as she supported the limping septuagenarian of their group, hurrying him along. "Apemen!" she hissed in warning, casting a harried look back over her shoulder.

Veronica's hand instantly settled on the hilt of the knife sheathed at her hip. She gestured toward the nearest cover, a stand of jungle ferns large enough to conceal all six of them - if they could reach it in time. "Quick - get Roxton in there!" The ferns looked too thick for them to penetrate, but they knew Veronica too well by now to question whether she was right or not.

"Don't you dare, Lord Roxton!" Marguerite's low-pitched voice was nonetheless sharp and imperious enough to arrest Roxton's automatic reaction to danger.

He hadn't even considered the consequences of trying to get up; it had been instinctive. But as he sank back from his half-raised position, biting back a groan and wrapping his injured arm across his midsection, he certainly wished he had thought about it before acting. The impulsive movement had further torn his skin, engulfing him in an intense flare of pain almost as bad as when he'd first received the original wound.

Ned dashed back to help Challenger move the injured nobleman while Marguerite continued to shepherd the eldest explorer toward the hoped-for shelter. Veronica took up the rearguard position, uneasily scanning the surrounding jungle as she backed after the others.

The jostling involved in shifting the almost helpless Englishman into the midst of the plentiful ferns, combined with his previous rash attempt to sit up, increased his bleeding again to the point that it began to soak through the pressure pad. Roxton kept his injured arm hugged protectively over the bandage, stoically silent as he was carried across to the ferns. He was ashen-faced by the time his friends eased him to the ground inside Veronica's chosen position amidst the thick fronds. Desperately aware of the fact that he was in no shape to contribute to their defense, he remembered his back-up weapon and whispered hoarsely, "I lost a gun somewhere around here, if you can spot it."

"What, that little 'son of a gun'?" Ned quipped lightly, still working to divert the wounded man even as he looked around.

"Yeah, well, a couple shots are better than no shots at all, boy-o," retorted the hunter.

"I think Marguerite just located it," Challenger pointed out as he saw the brunette dart to one side. She bent down to scoop something up before returning to Summerlee's side and sliding her arm back around his ample waist.

Sure enough, a moment later she handed the small weapon to Challenger as she passed him on the way to getting Summerlee to safety. The white-haired man stopped and leaned over as soon as he was within the convenient cluster of verdant ferns, bracing himself with his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. Marguerite continued a few steps more to reach Roxton's side and dropped down beside him so quickly that it seemed to the horizontal man that she was falling. The impression was strengthened when she steadied herself with one trembling hand against the nearest sturdy shaft of vegetation to keep from tumbling over.

His gaze went from the betraying tremble to her strained face, from which her earlier flush of exertion had abruptly faded. "You okay?"

"Just fine." Her clipped words were not reassuring, given the pallor of her skin. "Hush - they're close!" She turned her head to watch over her shoulder between the thick growth of ferns that waved in the steady early-evening breeze.

Veronica was the last to step behind the concealing wall of vegetation, and it stilled behind her only seconds before a half dozen apemen became visible moving through the jungle, spread out in an arc as they advanced.

The hidden group held their position, watching alertly for any sign that they'd been spotted. Roxton, unable to see anything from flat on his back, studied his friends' expressions. There wasn't much he could do in his current condition, but at least he'd be forewarned if danger was imminent. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, detail standing out sharply to him.

Challenger crouched and raised the compact gun, poised for action as the primate-like creatures drew nearer. Ned's fists balled, his muscles tensing as he prepared to leap into battle, his eyes ceaselessly sweeping their surroundings. Veronica swiftly and silently drew her knife from its sheath and held it ready, her lithesome body coiled to move in any direction. Summerlee hunched his shoulders and assumed the classic boxing stance, albeit somewhat uncertainly. And Marguerite's hand closed over a convenient rock as she knelt protectively beside Roxton.

The hunter saw all of it…saw the alertness rise as their enemies moved ever closer…saw the intensity of anticipation quicken when the apemen spotted Largo's body and pounced on it…saw the way Ned keenly studied Veronica's reaction, prepared to restrain her again if she should try to keep the primitive beings from taking the body away…saw teeth nervously chewing on lower lips as the explorers watched the grunting tribe puzzling over the other footprints around the muddy pit before resuming their hunt…and he saw the tension drain from each of his comrades little by little as the group of apemen worked their way past the hidden group without suspecting their presence.

He knew they were safe when thick dark lashes closed over silver-green eyes as Marguerite released the breath she'd been holding, and the rock slipped from her fingers to the ground.

"I'll follow and make certain they don't double back," Veronica whispered cautiously. "Be ready to move as soon as I return."

She was gone without a sound.

"Stretcher," George Challenger snapped.

"Right. Guess this kitchen knife is going to come in handy again," Ned's blue eyes twinkled at Marguerite before he followed the lanky scientist out of the stand of ferns to search for the correctly-sized poles with which to build a litter for Roxton.

Marguerite stayed where she was, once again steadying herself as she looked up at Summerlee. "Are you all right, Arthur?"

He quirked a brow and peered down at her inquisitively. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that, my dear? I seem to recall behaving in a most ungentlemanly fashion toward you – more than once today, in fact."

She shrugged off his concern. "I've had worse."

"Nonetheless, I really must apologize," the portly older man insisted. "If I had behaved with your discretion instead of confronting Tom alone as I did, all of this might have been avoided. I seriously underestimated that man."

Intrigued with the by-play despite the pain in his side, the aristocrat eyed the white-haired gentleman and asked, "Did you really hit Marguerite with a skillet?"

The botanist nodded sorrowfully, stepping closer to them so he could rest an apologetic hand on his victim's shoulder. "I'm afraid so. It really is a most potent formula. I swallowed a fair amount when he poured it down my throat, but I don't believe the others had more than a sip or two when it was diluted in their tea. Yet all three of us were completely under his control. He had only to speak a thought, and it ruled our minds and behavior. It's odd, I can recall everything with perfect clarity. He had said I must help him, so when Marguerite told me that something wasn't right about him, I chose to hit her with the skillet because I understood that her knowledge would be dangerous to him. Obedience, yet also free will in the method of carrying out his wishes. The same was true when he told us you had to die, Roxton. We were not mindless drones, despite the compulsion to follow his directives."

"Yeah, I noticed that," Roxton grunted. "You'd have been much easier to deal with if you'd been unable to think for yourselves. You and Challenger came almost as close to killing me as Veronica did. You kept firing at me until your pistol was empty!"

"Yes, and I could just as easily have killed Marguerite." He squeezed her shoulder ruefully. "I chose that skillet because I knew a blow from it would put an end to the threat of her knowledge about Tom being an impostor. This neurotoxin derived from the ingredients Tom Layton listed in his journal would make a formidable weapon in the wrong hands."

Marguerite lifted her hand and placed it gently atop the gnarled fingers that pressed against her shoulder, smiling up at him affectionately. "Well, it's not in the wrong hands now, is it? You and George will know how best to deal with it."

"It's not ours to deal with, my dear, but Veronica's. The secret belonged to her parents, and now to her. It will be up to her to decide what should be done with it." The botanist noticed Roxton shifting in a vain attempt to ease the fiery throbbing in his side, and sighed heavily. "If only I had gone to the rest of you when I realized Tom was an impostor, instead of letting him know I was onto him…"

"You knew?" Ned asked, returning with two long poles in time to hear the last part of the conversation. He glanced over to smile at Veronica as she returned from confirming that none of the hunting group of apemen were returning in their direction. "I didn't notice anything amiss. So how did you know, Professor?" The young American set the poles down, took off his belt and added it to materials for Veronica to organize.

Following close behind Ned, Summerlee's counterpart harrumphed, "Lucky guess! Had to be!" The irritable leader of the expedition scowled at his fellow-scientist as he tossed down the two shorter poles that would complete the frame of the stretcher. "I was completely flummoxed by the fellow!" He pulled off his belt with another impatient huff and passed it to Veronica. "What could you have seen that I didn't?"

Summerlee removed his own belt while he explained how he'd become suspicious when the man naming himself as Veronica's father had disclaimed credit for her artistic ability. "She had only that morning told me that she'd learned to paint at her father's side because he drew everything he saw, and her childhood imitation of his talents had earned her his attention. He tried to cover up his slip, of course, when I said Veronica had told me he'd taught her himself. But when I asked him a question that any true botanist should have known made no sense, he hadn't any idea the question was designed to betray him."

"So that was it," Challenger muttered darkly, miffed that he'd accepted the impersonator so willingly that he'd never even questioned the man.

The reporter's attention was drawn to the brunette as she leaned over Roxton to tug his belt loose from his waist. Seeing the hunter wince at the slight movement, Ned not-so-innocently rubbed salt in Challenger's wounded pride as a continuing distraction for the hunter. "Marguerite knew he was a fraud, too, didn't you, Marguerite?"

"Yes, I knew." A gleam of amusement entered her eyes as she recognized the increasing chagrin of their resident genius when she confirmed Malone's statement.

Roxton saw the flicker of humor, and glanced curiously up at Challenger as the ginger-haired man demanded of her, "And how did _you_ know?!"

The hunter's lips twitched as it finally dawned on him that the reason their leader was so annoyed was the fact that he'd been duped. Challenger's realization that both his senior colleague and the group's mysterious financier had figured it out when he hadn't was heaping coals on the already smoldering embers of his injured pride.

Although she thought George's indignant reaction was funny, Marguerite saw no reason to elaborate on something that was sure to increase Veronica's discomfort over this whole episode. So she kept her answer to his testy question as brief as possible, and focused instead on helping the curvaceous blonde lash the poles together with the men's belts. "Just a lucky guess."

"Nonsense, my dear!" Summerlee declared heartily, wanting their comrades to appreciate how perceptive she'd been. He patted Marguerite's head enthusiastically, momentarily forgetting how he'd struck her. The brunette, kneeling on one knee, nearly tipped over as his touch put pressure on the still-tender swelling.

Roxton's eyes widened in alarm as he saw pain flash across Marguerite's face. The brunette wobbled, instinctively hunching away from the kindly hand of the eldest explorer. Her mouth tightened, brows lowering angrily as she had to drop both hands to the ground to hold herself upright. Roxton inhaled sharply to call out a warning - then nearly doubled over himself at the agony the deep breath caused his injured side. His eyes watered with the pain of it, and he blinked furiously to clear his sight, sure Marguerite was about to fall over onto him. To the hunter's puzzlement, when his sight cleared a moment later, Marguerite's slim shoulders were straight, unbowed, and Summerlee's fond hand rested on an apparently uninjured portion of her head. She looked a little pale, certainly, but as Roxton watched she closed her eyes briefly, inhaled sharply and breathed out again slowly… and her expression cleared completely. No one else seemed alarmed by her movements. She began to remove her muddy duster, and the only sign of her discomfort was a faint tremor in her hands. If she hadn't been so close to him, he wouldn't have been able to see her face, and he'd have thought she'd only shifted position in preparation for taking off her coat. Had he just imagined her pain and brief loss of control?

So intrigued by her behavior that he almost forgot his own pain, the hunter wondered why the normally volatile woman hadn't vented her wrath as usual - _if_ that hand on her head really had caused the pain he'd thought he'd glimpsed. Then he saw her green eyes slant toward Summerlee, and he remembered her inexplicable tenderness for the botanist. It dawned on him that - if that gentle touch had indeed just caused her pain - she didn't want the old gent to know he'd hurt her further. She really must care deeply for him if she'd control her instinctive reactions like that for his sake. Roxton glanced up at Summerlee, too, and could tell instantly that she'd been successful.

She'd mastered herself so quickly that the portly snowy-haired gentleman, intent on sharing his opinion that she deserved credit for her perceptiveness, hadn't noticed what he'd done. Blissfully unaware of the pain he'd inflicted, he continued to explain what had happened. "Marguerite came to me privately to ask if I thought anything was amiss with Tom, because she'd noticed that he wasn't looking at Veronica with … er … appropriately _fatherly_ interest. Unfortunately, I hadn't exercised the same discretion about my suspicions by waiting to voice them beyond Tom's hearing, so I was already under the influence of that drug and I stopped her from alerting the rest of you."

Ned's whole body tensed as the older professor spoke. His reporter's mind must have been too focused on his unanswered questions about Kartas, Tom's genuine identity, the attack on Marguerite, and the whereabouts of their missing housemates for the truth to sink in when he'd first heard it. Now, hearing Summerlee's tactful phrasing, he suddenly understood exactly what Marguerite had meant back in the treehouse when she'd commented in disgust about the way Largo had looked at his "daughter". The young American's sky blue eyes darkened indignantly, and both his lip and his fist curled as he glared in the direction the apemen had gone with the body of the deceiver.

"I don't understand," Veronica frowned, looking over at her lone feminine housemate as they squatted on either side of the almost-completed framework. She automatically accepted Marguerite's damp, dirty duster and arranged it along with Challenger's shirt and vest over the poles as she asked, "You knew he was a phony by how he _looked_ at me?"

Marguerite met her eyes briefly, then refocused on the stretcher. Despite her raging headache, her deft fingers made quick work of fastening buttons as the blonde stretched fabric into place over poles. Clarifying this particular truth for the relatively innocent Veronica was part of what the worldlier woman had hoped to avoid. Her discomfort with the whole situation was compounded by the fact that her head pounded unmercifully. "Just a feeling I had, that's all."

Totally missing her obvious discretion and reticence, Challenger's brows drew together in a perplexed frown of frustration. Wholly focused on his pursuit of understanding where he'd failed to see the clues that had exposed the impersonator to the others, the ginger-headed man queried, "When was this?"

Despite his injury and continued weakness, Roxton was surprisingly aware of Marguerite's attempt to shield the youngest member of the group from further emotional distress. He winced in a different kind of pain as Summerlee helpfully replied, "I believe it was when Veronica donned her mother's gown."

Seeing Veronica's brow furrow as she tried to figure out the connections, Marguerite sighed almost imperceptibly and resigned herself to the fact that this was going to be discussed more thoroughly than any of them would be comfortable with before it was over. All she could do now was try to treat it as succinctly and lightly as possible in order to limit the damage to Veronica's already aching heart - and to George's sensitive ego. "Any of you would have drawn the same conclusion if you'd seen how that man looked at her, but I was the only one watching him. You men were busy - justifiably in your cases - admiring how beautiful Veronica looked."

The blonde flushed hotly as she finally understood that Marguerite was saying that the appreciative gaze of the man she'd believed was her father had been lustful instead of loving, as she'd imagined. She reacted defensively, lashing out sharply. "You didn't have parents of your own, so how would you know what 'appropriate fatherly interest' looks like?"

The instant the sarcastic question was out of her mouth, she wished it back. Neither woman had spoken about their mutual lack of parents since they'd escaped from the bottom of that well several months ago. Although the cynical brunette had bitterly declared that families were overrated, when they'd been stuck in the well together, Veronica knew the other woman had been genuinely thrilled for her when they'd all believed Tom Layton had come home. It was a low blow to throw Marguerite's lack of a father back in her face just because this man, Largo, had been dishonest.

Marguerite was unable to prevent the flush that stained her fair skin, although she bit off her instinctive retort, resisting the desire to lash back. She finished fastening the last button with fingers that only trembled slightly before she slowly looked up. She was well aware that all four men were watching and waiting for her to react to Veronica's jibe. She could see the younger woman's contrition, but the words were hanging between them now and had to be answered. This was the other facet of the story that she'd wanted to skip over, the dreaded topic she always ended up dwelling on far too much whenever discussions about parents or families arose. Not having a family of her own had only made the sight of other girls interacting with their families that much more vivid, but she had no intention of discussing that with these people. She'd have to choose her words very carefully here, make her point bluntly enough that it would be preferable to drop the subject rather than pursue the topic any further.

She focused on the young blonde, deliberately ignoring the four men. "I've seen that look in men's eyes often enough to identify it beyond any doubt, Veronica. I never saw it when fathers were looking at their own daughters," she said coolly, pleased that she'd managed to speak matter-of-factly.

Veronica blushed and shifted uncomfortably, at a loss for how to respond to the images invoked by Marguerite's words. She was as familiar as the other woman with the way men looked at pretty females who were not their daughters. Usually she was fairly good at evaluating people, so how had she so badly misread the man pretending to be her father?

Lord Roxton's lips compressed as he considered Marguerite receiving such stares from men who hadn't cared to truly know her, but who wanted to possess this woman, to claim a trophy … men such as he'd been when he'd first met her. From the hard glitter in her eyes, he suspected she'd faced such situations fairly often. No wonder she'd looked at him with contempt in the early days of their acquaintance! He'd been no better than Largo!

Arthur Summerlee's kind face reddened and crumpled in dismay as he belatedly realized this situation was one of those times when discretion would've been the better part of valor. Uncertain how to make amends, he took off his spectacles and wiped the lenses, chewing nervously on his lower lip as he tried to think of something to say that wouldn't increase the damage he'd already done by bringing it to Veronica's attention. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of a single thing that wouldn't make things worse. Platitudes would be worthless, and there wasn't a single phrase that could take away the sting from the truth that had embarrassed their young hostess.

Ned blinked and frowned. He understood the sympathy he felt for the beautiful blonde who was rapidly capturing his heart. But he was surprised at the inexplicable protectiveness he suddenly felt toward the independent brunette as her words took root in his fertile imagination. For the first time, Ned was aware of how such sensually lingering glances might affect not only relatively innocent girls like Veronica but even women as tough as Marguerite Krux. It was an uncomfortable but interesting idea, one worth thinking through – he'd have to make a note about it in his journal.

Marguerite's explanation of how she'd recognized Largo as a charlatan partially appeased Challenger's chagrin at being duped. He still didn't like that he'd been taken in when Miss Krux had seen the truth, but he'd recognized his own limitations long ago. In this instance, knowing that he'd always been more skilled with scientific fact than emotional nuance, he could take comfort in the fact that it was unlikely he'd have noticed such a detail even if he hadn't been admiring Veronica's attire. So Marguerite's perception of the charlatan's ruse had been by means beyond him.

Summerlee's revelation, however, had been based upon solid empirical, scientific methodology. He glowered balefully in his colleague's direction - and blinked at seeing that the man was visibly upset and flushed. A quick glance around at the others made the scientist belatedly aware that an odd silence prevailed among his comrades. Blast! More of that awkward emotional balderdash he had so much difficulty comprehending! Why the devil didn't one of the others speak up? Summerlee was so much better at handling these things - Malone was good with words - heavens, even Roxton was known to be an eloquent speaker! They'd all been talkative enough earlier, yet now the silence stretched on.

Impatiently, the genius scowled from one to another of his fellow-explorers. Malone and Summerlee were flushed and casting furtive glances at one or the other of the women. Veronica, even redder than they, eyed Marguerite as if she were some kind of mysterious specimen she was trying to identify. In contrast, Roxton was pale, but looking equally uncomfortable - although maybe that was just because of his wound. What the devil had everyone so tongue-tied?! Casting back in his mind for some hint in their conversation, the actual meaning of the exchange finally dawned on him.

Largo had lusted after Veronica?! Good heavens!

Well no wonder everyone was stymied - this was a totally inappropriate topic for conversation in mixed company. Flustered, Challenger sought for something - anything! - to clear the unwelcome images from his mind and redirect the conversation into proper parameters. His gaze settled on the makeshift stretcher. "Is that contraption ready yet?" he asked brusquely. The query earned him a half-mocking, half-incredulous look from the brunette's steely eyes since everyone could plainly see that the stretcher was indeed ready. To forestall any cutting comment she might make, he quickly ordered, "Let's get Roxton onto it, then." He stepped toward the injured nobleman as he spoke.

Ned and Summerlee literally jumped to join him, equally uncomfortable with the silence after the turn the conversation had taken and regretting their own parts in starting it.

Marguerite drew back from the group, folding her arms across her chest and adopting a disinterested expression, clearly unwilling to interact further with any of the others. Still uneasy over the topic of conversation they'd unwittingly promoted, none of the others pressed their luck by trying to speak to the withdrawn woman. Even Roxton didn't venture a word, concentrating instead on not giving away how much pain he was in. After a brief consultation, which included Arthur Summerlee giving each of the other men's respective bumps and bruises a quick once-over, Malone and Challenger somewhat gingerly lifted Roxton's battered body while the others maneuvered the makeshift stretcher beneath his long limbs.

"Hey, watch it!" Roxton grumbled, unable to help himself when the men jarred him as they lifted the litter.

"Sorry, old man," Challenger grunted, handling both poles at the rear of the stretcher. "I've got you now. You know, we really ought to detour slightly so that we can retrieve the weapons on our way home. I don't believe it's much of a deviation off our route, and with all these apemen wandering about it would be wise to re-arm ourselves as soon as possible."

"I agree," Marguerite said simply as she stepped close enough to the gangly scientist to take Roxton's hide-away gun from Challenger's pocket so she'd be armed while guarding their rear.

The hunter, noticing her undisputed action, barely stopped himself from suggesting that someone who hadn't recently been whacked over the head with a frying pan should handle the gun. Another moment's thought led him to conclude that there wasn't really a better alternative. The only ones who hadn't also been knocked out were Summerlee and Veronica; Veronica had to take point, and no one could argue that Summerlee would be more attentive than Marguerite or better able to respond to sudden dangers. As long as she stayed on her feet and away from friends who wanted to pat her on the head, she was the best choice to guard their backs. He was certainly in no condition to take on the task. Given the way almost any movement seemed to increase his pain, he shouldn't chance twisting to keep an eye on her, either. He'd have to listen harder, and trust in her well-honed instinct for survival.

"I must admit, I'll feel much safer once we have our weapons back again," Summerlee murmured from his position bearing the front right stretcher pole. Roxton was relieved to see the portly professor glance over his shoulder to check on the slim brunette before he faced forward again.

"Yeah, me, too," Ned nodded, adjusting his hold on the front left pole to compensate for Challenger's shifted grasp on the back end of the pallet.

Veronica accepted the plan without argument as well, knowing how effective the European weapons would be if the apemen attacked en masse before they could attain the security of being home. "I remember where Daddy - I mean, Largo … had us stack the weapons and ammunition packs. It's this way." She quickly stepped out in the lead without meeting anyone's eyes, chagrinned by her slip with the imposter's name. But she carefully modified her usual rapid stride to accommodate the slower pace of the group as they transported the injured man.

Luck was with them as they headed back to the treehouse. Veronica's expert scouting allowed them to avoid any confrontations with wandering apemen, and they found the rifles and packs right where they'd been left. They all felt better once they had their rifles and handguns fully loaded and ready at hand. Still, everyone was tiring rapidly. Summerlee was the only member of the party who hadn't suffered a blow to the head or endured any hand-to-hand combat - and considering that the oldest gentleman frequently needed support on the trails, the fact that he was in his usual health was hardly reassuring to anyone.

Roxton doubted any of the others were any more aware of the collective need for recuperation than he was. Every faltered stride taken by one of his bearers was felt as a further twinge in his side, keeping him continually tensed in his effort not to increase his friends' burden with audible evidence of his pain. Past experience had taught the adventurer that centering his attention on any agony only made it worse, so instead he focused his wavering attention on his companions.

Along with noting that everyone else was suffering to one extent or another, he discovered admirable facets in each of his friends. Despite Ned's own pain and weariness, the young man was doggedly carrying not only his own share of the stretcher, but was also instrumental in steadying Summerlee's progress. The botanist was limping heavily, but never wavered in his determination to contribute to getting Roxton home. George Challenger, whose strength rarely failed him, gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue, merely squinting his blue eyes against the throbbing at the back of his head and periodically adjusting his grip on the stretcher poles to ease the ache in his left shoulder. Inevitably, after such a necessity he cast a wary look back over his shoulder at the sharp-tongued woman strolling along a few steps behind them. He didn't want to give her any excuse either to mock him or to vent her temper, but he needn't have worried. Marguerite wasn't wasting any breath on the others. The hunter could hear her footsteps; her energy was flagging, too, though he had no doubt that she was doing a good job as rearguard.

It was harder to catch a glimpse of Veronica, who vanished ahead of them fairly often to verify the trail's safety. But when she returned to let them know if they needed to veer away or pause to avoid potential dangers, it was easy to see that her heart was heavy. Now that the filthy residue of her fight with Marguerite was drying, she reminded Roxton of pilgrims he had seen during his travels in the Middle East; she had the same appearance of those mourners that dressed in rags and threw dirt on themselves as a sign of their distress. It wasn't only the matted hair and dried, flaking mud that streaked her body… It was the misery that shadowed her thick-lashed blue eyes and tugged down the corners of her mouth, and put the slight catch in the saddened undertones of her voice when she spoke.

Roxton found himself wishing he could have throttled Largo with his bare hands. It would've been so much more satisfying than merely throwing the kitchen knife. From the set of Ned's shoulders and a glimpse of the look in his eye after one of the times when Veronica had loped ahead again, the hunter suspected the younger man felt the same way.

Despite Veronica's skill and the group's occasional quickened pace in response to her firm urging, the sun was sinking below the horizon before they reached the relative safety of their lofty home. By the time the elevator had carried them all up into the treehouse, even the beautiful young blonde was drooping with weariness.

But the day was not yet over. Everyone had practical matters that needed attention, and they set about doing them without delay.

"You wash up first; it will refresh you. I've already had a nap today." Marguerite's mildly sarcastic offer was accepted at face value by her hostess, who was longing for a few moments alone to recoup her strength and her emotional equilibrium. The brunette watched the younger woman's quick departure toward the water closet with a sympathetic grimace. Then, rather than retreating to her room, she quietly collected the weapons and ammunition to sort and put away while Veronica took the first turn in the lone tub. Experience had taught the older woman that it was better to keep busy until she could access the warm water that would hopefully soothe her many aches and pains.

Arthur Summerlee descended to the lab and gathered the necessary medical supplies, leaving Malone and Challenger to maneuver their wounded friend down to his bedroom. Then the two professors cleansed, sutured, and bandaged the various injuries Lord Roxton had suffered during the day's adventures. They tried to convince him to take something for his pain, but as usual the hunter refused both laudanum and poppy syrup. Neither Summerlee's gentle appeals nor Challenger's logical arguments could persuade him to take anything more than a single glass of whiskey.

While the older men were busy tending to Roxton, Ned returned to the upper level. He had a light meal well under way before Veronica joined him, so dinner was ready by the time Marguerite had finished washing up and the professors pronounced themselves satisfied that Roxton had been properly tended - at least, to the extent he would allow.

The meal was delayed when Summerlee overheard Ned ruefully confess to Veronica that Kartas had knocked him out cold after the young reporter had tried to call out a warning to Veronica's supposed father. Since he hadn't known this detail until that moment, their volunteer physician hadn't examined the young American's skull earlier. He insisted on doing so immediately, saying contritely again, "My deepest apologies, my dear boy! If only I had used more common sense in dealing with Tom, you would have stayed home to reckon with him and never would have run into that Kartas person."

Ned earnestly insisted, "It wasn't your fault, Professor, honest. Kartas would still have been out there looking for us and for Largo, and we would still have needed to go out searching for Roxton, even if you'd managed to alert us." Ned sat patiently still, wincing as the knowledgeable hands tenderly probed the bump beneath his blond hair. Ruefully he added, "Besides, I'm used to it."

That brought a round of hearty chuckles from his friends.

"Well," the botanist admitted, stepping back, "It doesn't seem to be any worse than any of the other blows you've suffered since we've arrived here." Amidst the general laughter, Summerlee looked toward the similarly injured petite brunette. "My dear, I know you said Ned looked after you earlier, but perhaps -"

Marguerite raised an imperious hand to halt his words, and her icy gaze met his mild puzzlement. "I'm fine," she said flatly. Then, before the kindly old scientist could pressure her into allowing him to check her over, she rose from her chair at the table and picked up the tray Veronica had prepared for Roxton. "I'll just take this down for our invalid," she volunteered dryly, and deliberately added her own plate to the load. "I'll keep him company while he's eating, in case he needs his food cut … or something."

"This looks delicious, Ned," Veronica commented quickly, not particularly wanting Marguerite's company and glad that the older woman was removing herself. She was still too uncomfortable, remembering what she'd said to Marguerite - and what Marguerite had revealed in return. "And healthy, too. I'm sure it'll do Roxton good."

Summerlee naturally picked up on the tension, and quickly acted to divert attention from it. He would not again be a party to making the two young women uncomfortable, as he had this afternoon. "Yes, Marguerite, taking a tray down and sitting with him is a good idea. Roxton really shouldn't be left alone for the next day or so. We'll all have to take turns watching him, and if you take the first watch, you'll be able to get to bed at a reasonable hour. You need your rest after what happened today."

"I said I'm fine," Marguerite growled. "But I'll take first watch since I'm going down now anyway."

No one else spoke up, although they each cast a surreptitious look after the slim lady in between piling food onto their plates. Arthur did heave a troubled sigh, but once she was out of sight around the bend of the stairs Challenger dropped a sympathetic hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't fret about her, old boy. You know she behaves herself well in a sick room."

The white-haired gentleman couldn't help but smile. "She does indeed."

Malone snickered. "Yeah, she's a real Florence Nightingale, our Marguerite. _Ouch_ - hey, what was that for?" He stared at Veronica in injured surprise, rubbing his ribs where she'd elbowed him. She raised a brow and gestured meaningfully with her eyes … and the reporter abruptly recalled that it had been the unpredictable brunette who'd helped Summerlee emotionally as well as physically when he'd been so ill. "Oh, right. Sorry," he mumbled, flushing.

"Apology accepted, dear boy. Besides, now that I think of it, even if she happens to be a bit touchy tonight, John is perfectly capable of handling her moods." Cheered by this consideration, Arthur gave himself over to enjoying the fresh fruit and vegetables on his plate.

Challenger snorted in disbelief. "He'd have to be a bloody genius to do that," he muttered beneath his breath, then took a hearty bite of fruit from his plate. Suddenly aware of his own hunger, he mused thoughtfully, "We really are most fortunate to have access to such healthful foods."

"Indeed we are," Summerlee agreed immediately. He peered over the top rim of his spectacles at the portions of food Challenger had selected, and added, "Of course, you've chosen the wrong combination of fruits and vegetables. You really should eat those greens in conjunction with that -"

"Don't be ridiculous! As usual you don't know what you're talking about -"

Ned and Veronica exchanged resigned looks and wondered if it was too late to follow Marguerite out of the room.

Down on the lower level, Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief as she escaped the table without being called back. She didn't want to hurt Summerlee's feelings, but she was ill at ease being fussed over, especially in front of the others. She preferred to deal with the consistently painful throbbing at the back of her head in her own fashion. If she needed help, she'd ask for it. It had been quite within the realm of probability that the old dear would insist on doctoring her despite her clear prevarication, but thankfully he'd accepted her ploy - this time. Of course, Veronica's timely comment about dinner had undoubtedly helped.

It was a relief to be away from everyone's eyes. Her brief struggle with the younger woman had left more bruises than she wanted any of them to know, especially Veronica. The effects of her exertions today seemed to be growing more severe now that they were home, instead of easing as she'd hoped. Adrenaline and necessity had enabled her to cope on the way back, but it was becoming more difficult to successfully hide how shaky she was feeling. Well, she wanted the chance to evaluate Roxton's condition for herself anyway, and now would be a good time, while the others were occupied upstairs. She could hear her housemates talking - the professors arguing of course, and the younger pair quietly beginning to make plans for the next day - as she slowly made her way along the corridor of the lower level. Once she'd seen for herself that Lord Roxton was doing all right, then she could rest.

She'd never been so frightened in her life as when she'd seen Veronica plunge that blade into the lean hunter who had become -

_Become what?_ She wasn't at all sure just what to make of him any more, or of her feelings about him. Something strange was happening. _I really need to toughen up. I'm losing my edge, allowing myself to care far too much about these people. I can't afford to indulge in such foolishness. Being stranded here on this bloody plateau for so long is a problem for this very reason. It's becoming more and more difficult to maintain my distance, to keep my own mission the priority it should be. _

She needed to remember the lessons life had taught her before she'd met these people with their ridiculously idealistic and insidious ideas of "family" and honor and self-sacrifice - as if any of them knew as much as she did about that particular concept. She'd given more of herself for the good of others than any of these people would ever believe. But that was over and done with; no more putting aside her own plans, hopes, dreams, not for anyone or anything. She'd delayed her search for her past and for her family, for the place she belonged, through the long years of the war, and lost a great deal in the process. So much had been destroyed: records, homes, people gone who might've had answers for her. Now her only hope was to get her hands on the birth certificate Xan held. For the sake of her future, she had no option other than to remain focused, to keep her mind centered on finding the Ouroboros, and, in case the legends were exaggerated, a way back out of this Lost World, back to Xan to claim her birthright.

_Nothing else matters,_ she reminded herself sternly. _I'm done with worrying about others. I vowed after the war that nothing would interfere with achieving my goals, and I intend to keep that vow. I've given enough, done enough, lost enough, and even trusted enough to know that no one can be trusted. There's no end to the struggle between good and evil, between right and wrong. There's always another ambitious, scheming person or group seeking to profit at someone else's expense, wanting to take what someone else has worked to attain, and to hurt whoever stands in their way. I'm done with all that. I've enough to do, just looking out for myself. _

Marguerite stepped softly into the handsome hunter's quarters, hoping he'd found some relief in drug-induced slumber, but found him awake. Hesitating in mid-step, the heiress instantly realized her error. She drew a quick breath to steady herself as he turned his dark green eyes toward her – how could she have forgotten his intense aversion to using medications that dulled the senses, which so closely paralleled her own avoidance of such tonics? – then walked forward. "Hungry?" she asked casually as she carried the dinner tray to his bedside table, careful not to limp or allow any other sign of her pain to show in her voice, posture or expression. She set the tray down and turned to meet his keen gaze.

"Definitely."

Her lips curved upward at his heartfelt answer. "Well, Malone put together a passable meal." She studied his countenance, but couldn't see any sign of the low-grade fever Arthur had mentioned. He didn't seem at all sluggish, but was bright-eyed and alert. Although she hadn't anticipated the need to converse with the hunter, she was pleased to find him looking better than she'd feared. If she could manage to dredge up enough energy to keep her upright during this visit, the fact that he wasn't under the influence of sleep-inducing doses meant she could assess his condition fairly quickly. Recognizing the perfect opportunity to test the state of his health, she smiled coyly and drawled, "We'll have to prop you up a bit before you can eat. Do you think you can manage that? Or would you prefer to have me hand-feed each mouthful to you?"

She knew that both proposals would tempt him. The choice he made now would tell her how he was _really_ doing, so she waited patiently to see what he would decide. She'd watched this man deal with various levels of ill health for the better part of a year now. The handsome ladies' man wasn't above feigning helplessness to garner totally unnecessary feminine ministrations - with a boyish playfulness that she found utterly charming, despite its transparency - but when he was in genuine need of help, his strongest desire was to overcome his physical limitations. Was he feeling well enough to enjoy some mild flirting with her as she hand-fed him? Or were his wounds bothering him to the extent that he'd opt instead to defy his own weakness in favor of attempting to sit up so he could eat properly?

Roxton pursed his lips and thought it over carefully as she watched him. The idea of Marguerite waiting on him had definite appeal, and would present some excellent opportunities for the verbal foreplay they frequently enjoyed. Such games were a welcome pastime in the ordinary course of a day; at this moment they would be a godsend, the perfect diversion. But Roxton also knew as well as Marguerite did that it wasn't likely that his over-zealous doctors would allow him to be upright even for short periods over the next couple days. This wasn't the first time he'd been confined to bed under the care of the two older men, and he knew he should seize the opportunity to sit up while it was offered. He loathed being bedridden for any length of time, hated the inactivity with a passion. There was definite appeal to an act that would prove he could still overcome his physical infirmities.

Besides, he hadn't forgotten that sizeable lump he'd felt earlier today on the back of the delicate brunette's skull. She'd undertaken some strenuous exertions this afternoon instead of resting after such a powerful blow to the head, for which he could hardly fault her since she'd saved his life. But he'd seen her shakiness out on the trail, and now noticed subtle signs that she needed some looking after herself. Though a relaxing soak in the tub usually refreshed her, Marguerite was still abnormally pale. Moreover, perhaps because he knew that he was squinting in his own efforts to manage pain, he could discern a hint of similar narrowing to her lovely eyes that told him she wasn't as well off as she'd like him to believe with her relaxed stance at his bedside.

It was the last detail that decided him. Much as he delighted in opportunities to flirt with the vivacious Miss Krux, it would be best for her to rest rather than to exert herself even more to tend to him when it wasn't necessary. There would likely be plenty of time to flirt with her in the next couple days; she always seemed to be the one who kept him company the most often when he was injured. Or maybe he just exerted himself to stay awake more often when she was by his side - after all, she was a lot prettier than Summerlee. And to keep her that way, he should let her rest.

So he smiled warmly up at her and said, "As delightful as it is to contemplate accepting tasty morsels from your dainty fingertips, my dear, I think I can manage to feed myself."

His answer puzzled her, since it included both the flirting and the defiance of his own weakness and the professors' instructions. But she played along. "Bored with being flat on your back already?" she teased as she leaned over and slid one slender arm beneath his shoulders to help him roll slightly to the side while she re-stacked his pillows. "You may as well resign yourself to it now, Roxton. You know Summerlee's going to expect you to stay in bed for at least two days, don't you? He's surprisingly good at getting his way." She'd been lucky to get off without a fight herself, upstairs. The old boy must have had some ulterior motive for letting her go without that examination he'd wanted to give her, but she was too tired to think it through just now.

"Oh, I may have a trick or two up my sleeve," he grunted, and accepted her aid to raise his shoulders and work his way backwards on the mattress until he could lean back securely on the pillows.

"That won't do you any good if they won't let you get dressed," she pointed out a bit breathlessly, leaning against the bed as she checked to make sure his movement hadn't broken open his stitches before she settled his light blanket in place again. "So you'd best enjoy this while you can."

Shifting upward had been far more painful than he'd anticipated - for both of them, he realized. Only after she'd tugged him up into the new position and then stepped back from the bed without her usual grace did it dawn on him that her banter had successfully distracted him from how difficult it'd been for her to maneuver his greater bulk. Judging from her increased pallor and unsteady hands, it must have taken almost all her strength to leverage him to an angle at which he could feed himself. He grimaced in several kinds of pain as he noticed the way her hands shook as she retrieved the wooden tray and placed it on his lap.

Marguerite steadied herself discreetly for a moment under the guise of making sure the tray was stable before she released it. She hoped Roxton's grimace indicated that he was too preoccupied by his own pain to notice her condition. She reached for her own plate, lifting it from beside his with a flourish meant to distract him from her unstable posture. "There. Dinner is served. You'd better finish every bite if you know what's good for you, Lord Roxton." Though she spoke lightly, she knew she probably didn't look well. She turned and started away from the bed, silently cursing the wobbliness the keen hunter was unlikely to miss. _Drat!_

Meanwhile, Roxton was doing some mental cursing himself. He should have realized that it would be harder for the petite woman to help him sit up than to simply feed him herself. Marguerite was exhausted and in pain, in need of food and rest. He bit back his worried words, past experience having proved that exhibitions of concern would not be welcomed but were more likely to propel her from his room. If he was seeing this much of her pain despite her best efforts, she was probably a hundred times worse off, and he doubted that she'd make it as far as her own bedroom if she walked out of here now. Of course she had those remarkable reserves of strength that always took him by surprise; she might get to her room. But if she did, would she bother to eat the food on the plate she held so tenuously? She needed the sustenance as well as some sleep. How could he ensure that she had both when he himself couldn't move? Even if he were perfectly fit, he couldn't force her…but he could give her an excuse to stay, to sit down before she fell down, without making her feel that she was revealing any frailty by doing so. He spoke up quickly, before she could step any closer to the doorway. "You don't expect me to dine alone, do you? You're going to stay with me?" he asked, as plaintively as possible.

She gave him a curious glance back over her shoulder. "If you'd like company," she agreed graciously, not letting him know she'd intended to remain with him all along. Now, considering that her accursed legs probably wouldn't carry her back out of his doorway, his request gave her a plausible reason to stay without ruffling his feathers by telling him that his housemates intended to stand watch over him. She set her plate on his bedside table and added, "You do have the most comfortable chair in this poor excuse for a house."

With a wry acknowledgment to herself that once she sat down she probably wouldn't be able to get back up for a while, she decided she'd best move the seat closer to his bedside. If he needed help with his food, or a drink, she'd be able to handle it by leaning forward instead of trying to get to her feet.

Roxton's concern increased as he watched her struggle to drag the padded chair closer, and he noted the almost imperceptible sigh of relief as she sank down onto its cushions. He could only watch helplessly as she reached stiffly for her plate, set it on her lap, and slowly relaxed into the cushions. His fists clenched; he wanted to order her to bed – either hers or his, not that she'd accept either one. Squashing the delightful images that had flashed to mind as soon as he'd thought of sending her to bed, he reminded himself sternly that neither of them was in any shape for such diversions. For now, beds were for healing, not for tempting pleasures. She ought to be in bed, giving herself the proper time to recover from her injuries. But Marguerite was not a woman who easily accepted the care of others; she would certainly resist if he suggested it. If he kept his mouth shut, she might relax right where she was.

Unaware of his internal battle, she focused on loosening the taut muscles that had been keeping her upright. Marguerite closed her eyes and leaned her head back - then jerked it up again with a wince, suppressing a cry. Her face went completely ashen as her lashes flashed open again to reveal eyes gone smoke gray with pain.

Her increased pallor broke his resolve to remain silent, and Roxton swore under his breath. "I'm sorry, Marguerite. I wasn't thinking when I chose to eat on my own. I shouldn't have let you help me to sit up like this. You should have been off your feet long ago."

She tensed even more, instinctively attempting to conceal her pain again, and arched a haughty brow at him for all the world as if she hadn't a clue what he meant.

"Oh come on!" he scoffed, pain and worry unwisely loosening his tongue despite his intention to keep quiet. "You're being too stubborn for your own good! You think I can't see that you're hurting?! If you'd been resting this afternoon as you should've been instead of traipsing around the jungle looking for me and wrestling with Veronica, you'd probably be fully recovered from that rap on the head and raring to go about now."

"Of all the ungrateful –! You'd be dead right now if I'd rested this afternoon, Lord Roxton!" Her eyes flashed irritably, and she pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I wouldn't have needed to be traipsing around the jungle or wrestling Veronica if you'd just followed your own rules. _You're_ the one who foolishly took off alone into the jungle facing who-knew-what, breaking his own safety rules not once but _twice_ in the same day!"

His jaw had dropped at her accusation. "Foolishly! You think defending one's friends is _foolish_?" he demanded incredulously, forgetting his injuries in the heat of this unexpected argument, but angry enough to ignore the stabbing pain that tore through him with every indignant word.

"That's exactly what it is, when it's not done reasonably!" she fired back without hesitation across the few feet that separated the chair from his bed, ignoring the increasing pounding in her skull. "Malone told me all about how you were strung up in a tree, and how you nearly ended up as dino-fodder. If either he or Challenger had been with you when you tracked down that Kartas person, instead of your having gone marching off by yourself - _against your own rules_ – maybe with Challenger or Malone's help you could have strung _him_ up in that tree! And if you had waited for me to wake up this afternoon instead of charging out alone a _second_ time, Malone or I could have been there to back you up when you found the others with Largo!"

The nobleman's eyes narrowed and his lips thinned as he glared at the petite woman glowering so fiercely back at him. But though he longed to argue, for the life of him he couldn't think of a way to refute her reasoning. _She's bloody well right, irritating as it is to admit it. It would've been much safer dealing with a warrior of Kartas's skill, and much less dangerous for all of us, if I'd followed my own rules and taken Malone or Challenger - or even Marguerite! – with me when I left the treehouse._ He was briefly diverted by the mental image of this wily woman coming face to face with the tattooed native. Marguerite would probably have had the executioner eating out of the palm of her hand. The man hadn't been unreasonable; they might even have ended up cooperating with Kartas to deal with his escaped prisoner. Whether it was Marguerite or one of the men, the outcome would most certainly have been different if Roxton hadn't been alone. Heaving an exasperated growl, Roxton grudgingly admitted, "Well, you may have a point."

Now it was Marguerite's jaw that dropped. She stared at him, eyes widened in astonishment. When he said nothing else, she eyed him suspiciously and crossly prodded, "Well, go on! Is that all you have to say about it? You can't just declare that I may have a point, then drop the subject!"

His lips twitched as it occurred to him that he'd just won his objective by losing the argument – not to mention the fact that his pain was decreasing as his anger abated, a welcome side effect of yielding on the issue. He wondered if Marguerite's suffering had been similarly lessened by letting her win their verbal skirmish. The pained creases at the corners of her lovely eyes had eased, and he'd taken the wind out of her sails quite effectively simply by agreeing with her, so she no longer looked as if she was about to storm out of his room. Amused at the apparent multiple benefits of conceding, he did it again – not so grudgingly this time. "Well, when you're right, you're right," he shrugged, and selected a piece of fruit. He bit off a smaller chunk and chewed slowly, trying not to look directly at the as-yet-untouched plate on her lap lest she guess what he was up to. "What good would it do me to pretend otherwise? I did break the rules, and now I'm paying for it - and so are you. I suppose I was a bit over-confident. I apologize, Marguerite. I'm sorry that I acted irresponsibly and worried you."

Disarmed by his confession and apology, the heiress seized on his last phrase to buoy her resistance to his charm; she eyed him scornfully. "Worried? Me? About _you_? As if I'd bother," she huffed. Absently, she picked up a slice of fruit and bit into it, automatically mimicking his actions. _If he thinks some trite apology is going to get him off the hook, he has another thought coming!_ "If you're so sorry, then stop going off on your own! You always act like you're indestructible, Lord Roxton. But you're only human, you know."

He swallowed, and allowed a sly smile to spread across his face. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you cared, Miss Krux."

A faint pink stole into her pale cheeks. "You're obviously delusional. Now shut up and eat your dinner so I can get some rest," she muttered darkly, then focused on her plate and finished off the morsel of fruit in her hand so that she could choose another, thus avoiding his knowing eyes. But when she stole a glance toward him from beneath her lashes a few moments later, he was still watching her with that familiar silly half grin as he chewed his dinner. There was a look in his eye, as if he'd achieved something - _Something undoubtedly at my expense,_ she thought sourly. "What?!" she demanded.

The man who'd been voted the most eloquent speaker in the House of Lords adopted his most innocent expression. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Good. Keep it that way," she advised, eyeing him warily before she picked up a piece of cheese and nibbled at it. Her headache was down to a dull pulsing, _no thanks to him. If he would only_ -

"I was just thinking how lucky we are to have you along on this expedition," he volunteered casually, startling her again.

"I beg your pardon?" she said blankly.

"You've turned out to be a real team player, Marguerite Krux. We're fortunate to have the benefit of your keen insight into human nature. Summerlee was absolutely correct; you did the right thing today when you went to tell him about Largo. And you were incredible, tackling Veronica like you did and saving my life. It's nice to know you can be depended upon -"

"You're clearly feverish, Roxton," she broke in frostily, and edged forward on the chair. "Perhaps I should call Summerlee and Challenger…" She let her voice trail off, glaring at him, daring him to continue, poised to leave if he did.

"Not necessary," he assured her gravely, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with merriment and his mouth still seemed too upturned. "I feel just fine." She may have been right about his breaking the rules, but somehow he felt certain that he'd come off the victor in this exchange. He took another bite and chewed contentedly, knowing full well that she wouldn't call the professors.

The slim brunette scowled and sat back again, not at all comfortable with the notion that her actions today might lead to a more trusting relationship with her housemates. If she'd had the strength, she'd have stalked right out of there and left him to enjoy his own smug company, whether he shut up or not. But since she didn't think she could do it without falling flat on her face, she stayed where she was. _Fine. After all, it's better if I stay. I won't give him the satisfaction of thinking he's flustered me with his ridiculous praise. Depended on, indeed! Of all the nerve! What gives any of them the right to depend on me?! I don't want them to depend on me!_ Marguerite fumed silently as she ate several more bites of the goat cheese, expecting the handsome lord to resume their conversation at any moment.

Roxton, however, ate silently, steadily working his way through the generous helping of fruit slices on his plate. She noticed that he was leaving the cheese for last. He always said goat cheese reminded him of the stable master who'd taught him to ride when he'd been only a lad - _Bother the man! I should be giving him the cold shoulder, and instead I'm softening toward him again, merely at the thought of his fondness for a servant! This kind of thing is exactly why I should keep my distance from these… these idealistic adventurers! _To distract herself, she leaned forward to take his glass from the bedside table and extend it to him. "Don't forget to drink some water, Roxton, or you'll end up dehydrated," she admonished crisply.

"Thank you," he said meekly, accepting the glass and drinking deeply. He handed it back to her, delighted with the dark searching look to which she subjected him as she refilled it. She didn't know what to make of him, and he was having fun keeping it that way. As long as she was trying to figure out what he was up to, she wouldn't leave. _If I can keep her wondering long enough, she'll fall asleep right here where I can keep an eye on her. All I have to do now is maintain a strategic silence…_

Sure enough, before he'd finished off the last of his fruit - someone had thoughtfully prepared man-sized portions of food for him instead of the smaller amounts usually allotted to an invalid – a partially filled stomach, her mild concussion, and exhaustion overcame the slender brunette. She nodded off between suspicious looks at the bedridden hunter, dark lashes fluttering down over her silver green orbs before she'd finished the considerably smaller portions of her dinner. But since he'd managed to ensure that she ate at least some of her food, Roxton was content.

He carefully finished his own meal while watching her sleep, keeping his movements small and controlled to avoid waking her or aggravating his own injuries. He tried to keep his focus on her; it was much more pleasant worrying over her condition than over his own. At first he was concerned that she might end up waking herself by leaning her head back again on the swollen area where Arthur had whacked her, but her head tilted sideways instead of back as she dozed off. He was pleased that it came to rest partly on the curve of the rocker's back, which would provide support for her delicate neck. Already a little healthy color was stealing back into her cheeks.

He relaxed against the pillows, the pull of his injuries tempered by the satisfaction of knowing that once again, they'd all made it through the day. From the sound of the movements upstairs, Challenger and Summerlee were cleaning up the kitchen. Young Ned's quick, light tread had descended earlier, just as Marguerite began to fall asleep, to the small room that served as a private bathing area. Veronica's almost-silent footfalls had gone out to the balcony a few minutes ago. Roxton was beginning to grow troubled about not hearing further movement from the guilt-ridden girl; this was a poor time of day to be alone with self-disgust or sorrow. The darkness made everything seem worse, as he had good cause to know.

Fortunately, the American finished his ablutions quickly. The hunter breathed a soft sigh of relief as he heard Malone climbing the stairs again. That was good. The lad wouldn't let Veronica get too morose about Largo.

Everyone was safe. Tomorrow was a new day…

Marguerite Krux shifted a little, curling into more restful position on the large padded chair, her plate sliding down between her thigh and the arm of the seat. No harm there; she'd left her meat for last, her least favorite part of the meal, and dried raptor wouldn't harm her clothing. She'd been right that the big padded rocker was the nicest chair in the treehouse, allotted to him because it could accommodate his height and bulk better than any of the other available chairs. He'd dozed off there himself many a lazy afternoon, when it was too hot to do physical chores or to hunt. She'd be almost as comfortable there as in her own bed, and doubtless Summerlee would come and check in on them both, eventually.

She was such a strange bundle of contradictions. As Ned had said, just when a fellow thought he had her figured out, she went and behaved in a manner contrary to…well, contrary to what she'd have them expect of her, at any rate.

And he was certain now that she really had been worried about him.

He smirked despite his ongoing discomfort. Challenger and Summerlee had confirmed what Ned had revealed, discussing the whole adventure as they'd worked over him after bringing him home. According to the ginger-haired scientist, the usually flinty woman had been so worried about what could've happened to Roxton that she'd even been jumpy at the relatively normal sound of jungle birds. Of course, she'd also been worried about Ned when the lad hadn't returned to meet them at the appointed time and place, and she'd been unhappy about Veronica being out with her "father" while an unknown menace stalked them.

His smile warmed as he looked over at the woman, slumbering so peacefully, lovely features softened and innocent with her guard down. A woman of fire and steel, multi-faceted, with depths unplumbed, he suspected she was a treasure beyond price. As he'd told Ned that first night they'd arrived at Veronica's home, anything worth getting was worth the shedding of a little blood. Of course, he'd had something simpler in mind then, nothing more than a pleasurable physical tryst. However, it hadn't taken long for him to be intrigued by glimpses of the bright, sensitive, witty woman hidden by the aloof, sometimes downright devilish demeanor that Marguerite adopted so well.

It wouldn't be easy, but he was going to know her in every sense of the term, he vowed to himself. He was willing to devote whatever amount of time and effort it took. Someday he would uncover who she truly was. He'd know her just as well as he knew the curve of her finely arched brows, the delicate bow of her upper lip, the changeable shade of her wide intelligent eyes, the allure of her graceful body, the scent of her lustrous hair, the melodic tone of her sultry voice…

Lord Roxton's eyes drifted closed.

On the upper level of the treehouse, the two scientists bickered amicably about the best procedure for cleaning dishes as they finished straightening the kitchen. Ned grinned to himself as he returned from washing off the day's grime, shaking his head over the familiar scientific sparring and making mental notes to record their respective points of view in his journal, but not stopping to write it now. He ignored the lure of the pen, though his blue eyes unerringly found the journal right where he'd left it earlier in the day before he, Challenger, and Marguerite had gone out to look for Roxton the second time. He could capture today's adventures and revelations on paper later. Now he had another goal in mind, an unspoken promise to fulfill.

He passed by the kitchen area and paused at the edge of the balcony. _Is she still out here?_ Veronica had been sad and grimly pensive toward the end of dinner; perhaps he'd be able to offer words of comfort, or, if nothing else, at least a listening ear. His gaze sought and found the young blonde standing somberly by the balcony rail. Her shoulder was turned to the opening into the Great Room, and he could see that she held one of her father's precious journals in her hands.

Was he intruding? As he hovered, irresolute, he saw her stiffen her back and rip out a single page. She crumpled it in her hand, then hesitated, looking down at the brightly burning brazier beside her.

_She shouldn't be alone with such a decision_, he decided compassionately, and stepped out onto the balcony to be with her in whatever way might help her best. He approached her quietly along the curve of the balcony.

Veronica's hand lifted from her side and dropped the balled page into the flames.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Ned asked softly as he stepped past her, turning to lean against one of the support poles, facing her and folding his arms across his chest as he studied her.

Without looking up at him she replied, "The drug was my father's secret." She tore another page from the journal and crushed it into a ball in her palm as she'd done with the first sheet, then glanced up at Ned. "It's going to stay that way." She resolutely dropped the second page into the brazier after the first and watched it catch fire.

Chest tightening in sympathy for her pain, Ned looked out into the deeply shadowed jungle. "I'm sorry about Tom," he offered quietly, "That he wasn't…" he swallowed and looked at Veronica again, his blue eyes regretful.

The young woman met his gaze sadly. "I think… a small part of me knew. I just wanted him to be so much…" Unable to continue, she turned her head to focus over the balcony rail, not really seeing anything as she closed her father's journal and clutched the precious possession to her chest.

Ned straightened and stepped closer. He hesitated briefly, aware that what he was about to say might renew false hopes. But she looked so lost that he couldn't let the moment pass without offering something that might console her. "Largo knew a lot about the treehouse…"

Veronica turned back to him, a guarded expression shuttering her face as she braced herself, torn between both yearning and dread of talking about what had happened over the past few days.

"Knew a lot about you, too," Ned continued, leaning casually against the rail beside her. "That means that your parents are still alive."

This possibility had occurred to her as she'd eaten dinner with the men. The impostor had never said how long ago it had been, though, and the accompanying fact that they'd been chained together as slaves in a mine was more daunting than inspiring. _My parents – slaves in a mine!_ "But where?" she asked the question that had been preying on her mind. "There are _thousands_ of mines," her voice cracked, and she caught her breath before continuing a bit despairingly, "A lifetime of ground to cover."

Ned shook his head slightly, with a brief reassuring grin. "You'll find them," he said simply. She studied him doubtfully, afraid to allow hope to blossom again. Ned nodded his affirmation, and took a steadying breath. He knew the odds weren't in her favor, but he added firmly, "Someday." He did his best to infuse his gaze with assurance, to convey his confidence that, if nothing else, she _deserved_ to find her parents after eleven years of searching and believing that they were still out there in the Lost World, somewhere.

He watched the play of emotions in her expressive face. Had it had been right to encourage her to persist in her quest to find Tom and Abigail Layton? But then he relaxed as she considered his words; her lips began to curve upwards, and her expression lightened.

_He's so caring, so loyal – Daddy and Mother would approve of him. _The thought startled her, but in an instant she realized it was the truth. Her parents would have liked Ned Malone, and trusted the kind-hearted, gentle American. Veronica had known many worthy warriors, men who were great hunters and trackers, and men who she'd respected for their wisdom. But she doubted she had ever met a man who genuinely cared about other people as much as this journalist did. She was increasingly aware of his quiet courage and courtesy. _Yes, Daddy and Mother will be glad that a man like Ned is in my life. Daddy's a good judge of men; he won't be at all surprised to learn that Ned has fought by my side no matter what we've faced, or that he's overcome his own fears to save me from raptors, offered to battle Niko to the death on my behalf, and supported my efforts to find them in spite of the odds. Daddy and Mother would take one look at him and know he's a man worthy of their respect. A man worthy of MY respect. I should find a way to let Ned know how much I appreciate him, how thankful I am that he's here with me…But how? _

How did one go about letting a man – especially one from another world than her own – know that he was… admired? And how could the idea be conveyed that a deeper relationship would be welcomed, without creating awkwardness in case it wasn't mutual? She knew so little about his world, other than what she'd read in books and heard from the others. She wouldn't have the least idea how to survive there, any more than her new friends had known how to survive in her world when they'd first arrived.

She'd have to think about it, perhaps ask one of the other members of the expedition. _Not Marguerite._ The cynical woman would smirk and mock the younger woman's tender feelings for the handsome, oft-bashful Ned. _I can't ask__ Challenger, either; he may be a genius, but he has no knack at all for relationships. But maybe Summerlee… or even Roxton. Either of them would treat my questions with respect - and wouldn't ask too many questions in return._ She would have to watch for an opportunity to speak with one of them privately. For now, the best she could do was to offer Ned a slow smile to express her appreciation of his warm support and companionship.

Pleased that she seemed to be comforted in some measure, Ned smiled back, and side by side they turned to look out into the night.

*****


End file.
